


Pages from a Life

by gowerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post RBF, Sick Sherlock, Unexpected Visitor, suggestions of cabinlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/pseuds/gowerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is not a closed book to everyone...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pages from a Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts), [3littleowls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/gifts), [EntropicCascade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntropicCascade/gifts).



> Thank you to Anarfea and 3littleowls, my beta-readers

The room seems just as it should be. Dust is so eloquent that no trace is allowed to exist on Mycroft’s mantlepiece. All is in order there. Not so on the bookcase. Jekyll and Hyde appears to have swapped places with Treasure Island.

Not good. He reaches for his mobile and presses speed dial seven. No initial answer.

060176 replies by automatic text thirty seconds later.  
Entry activated at 2155. Code ACD.

His breath hitches, suddenly afraid of what might be found in the panic room, but this is not the time to stroke Shrodinger’s cat.

Emergency lights cast odd shadows over the puddle of humanity on the floor. The sight transfixes him until he spots a quivering breath shudder out of Sherlock. Not a real ghost yet then, despite what is generally believed outside these walls.

Mycroft pads silently forward, sinking into a crouch beside him. He slips two fingers across the jugular to assess pulse and temperature. Too fast, too hot. Sherlock shrinks back with a groan. Weakened hands and feet scrabble at the floor tiles.  
“Shh. Save your strength,” whispers Mycroft. “When did you last eat?”  
“Friday.”  
“When did the fever start?”  
“Yesterday.”  
“Hmm.” Mycroft slides his hands around his back and lifts. His fingers slide into the hollows between ribs. “Not good, Sherlock. Transport requires effective maintenance.” His anger is dampened by exasperation and concern.

A pair of grey eyes edge open. A millimetre of silver glare catches the light. Mycroft’s eyebrows respond accordingly. “You are no use to anyone when feverish and malnourished, but you are free to leave if you can walk unaided.”

The grip on Sherlock’s arms eases. He stands independently for all of a second before his legs betray him. Mycroft’s hands are more loyal. “And that is why yours is merely the second best brain in England.” No response. Sherlock’s skin continues to burn under his touch. “Time for a warm bath, a warm bed and some soup.”  
“Not five years old.”  
“Clearly, so why must you act like it?”  
“Liked being five. Wasn’t alone then.”  
Mycroft hides his wince as the truth splinters him. “Well, you’re not alone now. Come on now, into the bath.”

***

Christmas Day dawns grey, foggy and supernaturally quiet.

Sherlock’s fever breaks at precisely five past three. His head throbs and his limbs ache. His throat has returned from a cultural exchange with a Saharan dune. His left hand is doubly tethered to a drip stand holding half-empty bags of antibiotics and a nutrient feed.

His eyes scan the room, determined to identify it. Blandly grey walls, industrial lino, no obvious windows. Still in Mycroft’s clutches, then.

“Glad to see you’ve decided to rejoin us.” A rich, educated tone which lacks the glib smarm of his brother. Another face swings into view. Richardson. A qualified paramedic, although equally as comfortable with a joystick or a gun.  
“Not much choice. Where is he?”  
“Mr Holmes is watching Her Majesty’s address to the nation. He will return shortly.”  
“Hmf.” Sherlock eyes the drip stand. Richardson catches his train of thought. “Those drips stay put, and so do you. Doctor’s orders.”  
“You’re not a doctor.”  
“As near as makes no difference around here. There are restraints and I will use them.”  
“Git.”  
“So mature. Your condition is clearly improving.”  
Faint strains of the National Anthem drifts towards them through the crack in the door. Richardson leans over and checks Sherlock’s pulse. “You’ve got ninety seconds. Go to sleep now before he reads you his favourite passages from _Thatcher: The Downing Street Years_.”  
“Hmf.” Sherlock’s eyes close with undisguised resentment. He is not tired. Absolutely not, but sleep reclaims him by the time Mycroft reaches his bedside.

*****

Mycroft wakes to a brotherless house on New Year’s Eve. No trace remains, other than a neatly folded paper aeroplane. He flips it over to the read the message scrawled across its base.

Transport repaired. MOT valid for another twelve months. ACD.

Strictly speaking, Mycroft should toss this into the fire. That would be the prudent thing to do.

Instead, he tucks it into a dog-eared paperback gilded by the image of a scarlet dragon snoozing on a pile of gold. Caring may not be convenient, but it remains a vital proof of life.


End file.
